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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Relative-Obscurity on 2024-11-23 23:25:29+00:00.
I was sitting back at my desk with my feet up, reading one of my students’ three hundred page dissertations, entitled “Ruminations in String Theory”, when I heard a knock on my office door.
But before I could even answer, a middle-aged chap donning a baseball cap and a five o’clock shadow, casually let himself in.
“Professor Windsor?” He asked, in a fairly heavy Boston accent, as he closed the door behind him.
“Last time I checked.” I replied, in an even heavier British accent, my regal accent contrasting with his… well… less regal accent.
I smiled…
…But he didn’t smile back.
That’s when I noticed the golden badge that was dangling from around his neck.
“Detective John O’Brien.” He introduced himself with a gruff voice, before continuing, “Hear they flew you all the way out from England, to head the physics program?”
“That they did.” I replied.
“Well, Professor… We have reason to believe that there’s a serial killer stalking the city… and we need your help.”
“My help?” I laughed. “That’s rubbish. I haven’t heard any reports of a serial killer.”
“That’s because for all intents and purposes… there’s nothing to report. The people he kills… are from the outskirts of society. No IDs. No family. And based on how he’s killing them… the department’s decided to… keep it under wraps.”
“How’s he killing them?” I asked, confused by where he was going with it.
That’s when he reached into his pocket, removed something, and tossed it onto my desk. “Found this on his last victim.”
I put on my spectacles and took a closer look.
It was a photograph of a blood-spattered body, atop of which was placed a handwritten note containing a series of equations…
…Equations that I was all too familiar with.
“Physics.” I said, “I see your killer fancies himself something of a science enthusiast.”
“We’re fairly confident that these are clues to his next murder. And we were hoping that you might be able to help us… decode them.”
“How many have there been?”
“Ten so far. And we think there are only two left.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He wrote us a letter. Apparently each death represents one of the 12 basic laws of physics. And after the 12th, he plans to disappear.”
“Which laws are left?”
“Well, there were 3. The 3 laws of motion. But your buddy here,” He said, pointing to the photograph. “He was the first of the 3… Inertia. The last 2 are-”
“Acceleration and Action-Reaction.” I interrupted, finishing his sentence.
“And that’s exactly why we need your help, professor.”
I laughed. "Despite the stereotype, Detective O’ Brien, I’m afraid this British chap is far from a sleuth. And I really must be getting home. I wish you the best with your investigation-”
“Listen, Professor,” He interrupted, “I’m just gonna be straight up with you. This wasn’t my idea, getting you involved. But the chief’s got it in his head that someone like yourself… an expert in your field… could help us find this guy. So do it or don’t do it… either’s fine by me. It’s my job to find this sicko either way. Just let me know, so I can get back to work.”
He had given me an out. An out, which I happily accepted.
“Well then, if it’s no skin off your back, Detective. I’ll have to regretfully decline.” I said decidedly, before throwing on my overcoat, and gesturing to the desk. “As you can see, I have far too many papers to catch up on.”
He started to open his mouth, as if he was about to argue, but stopped himself, before tossing his business card onto my desk and saying, “Call me if you change your mind.”
And with that, he simply shrugged his shoulders and walked out of my office, the door slamming behind him.
—
I honestly didn’t think much of the encounter at the time, and, by the next day, I had already forgotten about it, much too preoccupied with what was now a heaping pile of dissertations on my desk.
“Ryan Murphy.” I said aloud rather unapologetically, as I picked up the report at the top of the stack, trying to recall which of my students he was. After all, there were countless students in my classes that year, let alone over the years. How was I ever supposed to remember them all?
After reviewing Ryan’s paper, I marked it with an ‘F,’ before muttering a single word under my breath, “Rubbish.”
I took a deep breath and reached for the next report, but before I could, something caught my eye on my bookshelf.
It was a copy of Sir Isaac Newton’s Principia Mathematica, published in 1687, and containing his 3 laws of motion.
The book immediately brought me back to my conversation with the detective. For a moment, I sat there, wrestling with the decision to entertain O’Brien’s invitation, or forget it altogether.
Well fuck me. I thought to myself, as I leaned back in my chair, and let out a conflicted sigh, eventually caving in, and picking up my mobile phone. Fuck it.
RING. RING. RING.
“O’Brien.” He answered, in his thick Boston accent.
“Evening, Detective. It’s Professor Windsor.”
“What happened to regretfully declining?” He replied, with a smug smile on his face, that I couldn’t see… but knew was there.
I simply replied, “Send me the equations.”
—
Later that night, whilst treating myself to a cheeky drink at the Irish pub that was conveniently located below my flat, I stared down at my mobile phone, desperately trying to make some sense of the killer’s puzzle.
They were physics equations for sure. But they didn’t make any sense. The killer was surely familiar with science, but had purposely arranged the symbols in a haphazard way, as if spelling something out with them.
What the fuck could these equations, in combination with one another, possibly mean? I wondered, as I took a sip of my stout. At the time, pubs in the states weren’t necessarily known for the quality of their stouts, but this one was a special kind of foul. Nevertheless, I drank it anyway, the closest thing to a taste of home that I was going to find.
“What’s that symbol for?” The patron sitting next me interjected, in yet another heavy Boston accent.
Instinctively, I moved to cover my mobile phone, assuming that he saw the clue, but I quickly realised that he was actually pointing to the patch on my sweater.
“Oh this?” I replied, “It’s for Tottenham… Where I’m from. Or its team I should say.”
"What kind of team?”
“Football.”
“You a Pats fan?” He asked.
“Oh, not that football…” I began, before realising that it wasn’t worth attempting to explain to him that, to the rest of the world, football was actually played with your feet.
“Tottenham’s in England?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your English accent. It’s pretty subtle.”
“Well, I spent some time in the states as a kid.”
“They got snow like this over there?” He asked, pointing out the window to the falling snow, which had now amounted to about an inch. The first inch… of what was predicted to be one of the worst blizzards on record.
“Not like this.” I replied with a smile.
“How long you been here?”
“Just a year now.”
“Well fuck… welcome to Boston.” He said, before turning to the bartender. “Hey, Danny, get my friend over here a beer on me.”
“Cheers, mate.”
But despite the friendly gesture, I couldn’t help but still feel melancholy, empty, alone. It had been a year since my fateful voyage across the pond, but I still couldn’t help but feel haunted by the life I left behind.
I spent the rest of the night frantically attempting to solve the killer’s riddle, eventually passing out on the floor with my mobile phone on my chest, my body unintentionally resembling the photo of his last victim.
—
When I woke up the next morning, it suddenly hit me. Somehow, after a night of banging my head against the wall, the clue suddenly made sense.
“Acceleration.” I said aloud, remembering the theme of the next murder. “And an equation for gas, PV = nRT. That’s it! He’s gonna strike someone with a vehicle!”
I reached for my mobile phone, which had fallen to the floor beside me over the course of the night, and picked it up, excited to inform Detective O’Brien of my findings. But before I could dial his number, I heard a knock on my apartment door.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
CLICK.
I opened it, to find the detective himself simply standing there, with a disapproving look on his face.
“I did it!” I cried out, excitedly.
“Did what?” He asked, with a foul expression on his face.
"I solved it! He’s gonna hit his next victim with a car!”
But O’Brien couldn’t have been less impressed. Instead, he simply chided me.
“Hit his next victim with a car? Too little, too late, professor.”
My jaw dropped.
“Already?”
“He moves fast.”
“But you must admit. I was right.”
“You were late.”
"But the victim. He was hit by a car?”
“Yes.”
“So what you’re saying is, late or not, I was right.”
“Nope.”
"Why not?”
“Cause I’m never gonna give you that satisfaction.”
“Fair enough. So now what?”
“Let’s take a ride.”
—
Fifteen minutes later, we were driving through the city on I-93, on our way to Southie, where, from what Detective O’Brien had told me, the killer’s 11th victim had, sure enough, been crushed to death by a vehicle.
For most of the ride, we sat in silence, the only sound to be heard being that of the windscreen wipers swishing back and forth, as they cleared the rapidly falling snow from the windscreen.
Detective O’Brien occasionally sipped away at a styrofoam coffee cup that he’d bought from what I’d deduced… must have been the only coffee chain in the Commonwealth.
"Ever see a…
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